


A Wilderness of Pain

by ClementineStarling



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: A Series of Vignettes, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Dark, Death, F/M, Humiliation, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Incest, M/M, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Random Snippets, Rape, Torture, Whump, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29619711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: Nick's time in hell...
Relationships: Madam Satan | Lilith/Nicholas Scratch, The Dark Lord | Satan/Nicholas Scratch (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina), The Dark Lord | Satan/Sabrina Spellman
Kudos: 17





	A Wilderness of Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially what it says on the tin, but not super in-depth. 
> 
> Parts of this take inspiration from the third of Sarah Rees Brennan's CAOS tie-in novels "The Path of Night" where she describes Nick's pre-Academy life, growing up with a pack of wolves (and Amalia). If you're interested you can find a [synopsis of these events over at the Riverdale wiki](https://riverdale.fandom.com/wiki/Nicholas_Scratch#Early_Life).

Nick looks at Sabrina. There are so many things he still needs to tell her, so many things he wants to say, but there’s no time. All he can do is commit every last detail of her face to his memory, have it burnt into his retina so he will carry her image with him everywhere he goes. So it can’t be stolen from him.

It takes all the strength he has to tear his eyes away from her.

Magic runs through him like lightning when he performs the spell and time stutters, stops in anticipation of a clap of thunder. Nick holds his breath.

The celestial essence slams into him like a gut punch, throws him to the ground. Too sudden, too much. He’s gasping for air. His body won’t hold, he’s sure of it, it will come apart at the seams, burst open like an overripe fruit, spill the Devil out into the world again in a perversion of child birth, and all will have been for nothing. But by some unholy miracle he doesn’t break.

After a few laboured breaths the pain changes. Wrath burns hot under his skin, searing him from the inside out. Every nerve ending is alight with Lucifer’s fury. Blind rage surges through him like a fire storm. Control is slipping away. The world disappears into a red haze.

Is this death?

The body that used to belong to Nicholas Scratch leaps–

Then nothing.

__

Nick wakes to darkness, smothering, thick with smoke and sulphur. He can’t breathe. Panic flutters in his belly. He feels like he’s drowning. Madness reaches for him, the sweet call of oblivion, and he’s tempted to let himself fall into it, forget. But then he remembers...

_The mightiest prison is the first one, created by the False God. The human body, flesh and bone, the strongest and most sacred bindings in nature._

He is here by his own choosing. He has a duty to fulfil.

The thought is a lifeline he clutches onto, desperate, and slowly, ever so slowly the sensation of drowning stops. He is all right, he tells himself. As all right as he can be under the circumstances. There’s no damage to his body – none he’s aware of at least – and the excruciating agony of having the Devil stuffed inside him has faded to a dull throb. His skin still feels too tight, and his bones ache, but it’s more like a bout of the flu than being roasted alive.

Perhaps it’s what a snake feels like after it swallowed its prey? Bloated and turgid. Only it’s the snake that’s inside him. Does that make him the prey?

He shoves the question aside.

He’ll have to be careful what he thinks from now on. He—

_“ N i c h o l a s . ”_

Lucifer’s tone is soft, smooth as razor blades, the seduction of cool steel against his skin, slick and dangerous.

Nick wants to press his hands over his ears to drown out the words but it’s useless. They’re inside his head. _He_ is inside him. There’s no escape.

Inside, outside, the distinction has lost all meaning. He can feel Lucifer’s presence, feels him as though they were in the same room together, and maybe they are? How else would he be able to _touch_ him?

A mere whisper of fingertips, but enough to raise goosebumps on Nick’s flesh.

This isn’t real. It’s only an illusion.

A reassuring lie that won’t go unchallenged.

“Oh, don’t fool yourself, Nicholas, this is _very_ real.”

And indeed, this time Nick can feel the words too, damp and hot against his skin, as Lucifer’s presence grows more solid behind him, a shadow taking form.

Something stirs at the bottom of his mind but he is quick to push it back down again.

Don’t think, he tells himself. All you think he can use against you. All you think he _will_ use against you.

But how do you not think with the Devil inside your head?

Unbidden, Sabrina’s image flashes up in his mind. _Sabrina._ He’s doing this for her. It’s a truth that will be his shield and his sword, whatever might come.

Lucifer’s hand falls heavy on his shoulder as he leans in even closer, his lips almost touching Nick’s neck. “Ah, Sabrina, my darling daughter...” When he speaks her name the curve of his lips is almost a smile. “I’m afraid she can’t help you now.”

Lucifer’s fingers trail gently over Nick’s shoulder and up his neck. The mockery of a caress makes him shiver.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t judge you too harshly for joining her rebellion,” Lucifer says. “She _is_ a Morningstar after all.”

All he does is lie, Nick reminds himself. Whatever he says, he doesn’t mean it.

“Release me and I will allow her to keep you,” Lucifer whispers into Nick’s ear, his hand cupping his throat, not quite squeezing. “Release me and you will be forgiven.”

Nick has difficulties forming the word. It comes out dry and brittle, hardly recognizable as human speech. “No.”

The grip tightens around his throat. “You disappoint me, Nicholas.”

The snake’s hiss is unmistakable now and Nick braces himself. He can do this. For her.

But what does a boy like him know of the torments of hell? Lucifer has had millennia to learn how to break someone. He knows a thousand ways to inflict pain and even more to instill terror.

__

High above the stars twinkle, cold and distant in the black sky. In his mind, Nick draws lines between them, connecting them into constellations. It has been a while since he’s seen the maps but he remembers them perfectly.

There is little else to do in these long, lonely nights than _remember_.

Not relive what’s past, not revive what’s dead, but recall who he is and what he knows.

Nick is careful not to let his mind wander or his thoughts stray. He is keenly aware how perilous a landscape his memory is, how fraught with trauma, with loss and fear. To avoid the dragons that lurk there, he keeps himself busy – by redrawing celestial maps, repeating incantations in his head, spells, potion formulas, anything he’s ever been taught, anything he has ever read.

In daytime there’s little that distinguishes him from the beasts he runs with; just like them he is occupied with survival, with food and drink, with stalking and hunting and his rank in the pack, mindless, savage, but at night, at night everything changes. At night he delves deep into the craft. At night he hones his skills and works his magic.

As he has been told to – so he’ll be ready when the time comes. So he’ll be worthy.

There is little he remembers of his mother (there is little he allows himself to remember) – but he will never forget her reverie when she spoke about their Lord and his gifts.

“It is your birthright,” she said. “It is your _fate_.” And he believed her. He still does.

He might not quite understand what it means to be destined for the _Path of Night_ – the notion fills him with awe, fear and excitement mingling in his belly, inseparable – but what was written in the stars shall come to pass. All he can do is prepare.

And so, as far-away planets make their way across the skies and the moon rises and falls, Nicholas Scratch prays and studies and waits.

For a change in the air, a faint ripple in the fabric of time, the whiff of brimstone.

Night after night he waits while loneliness uncoils in his chest like barbed wire. Wolves are no company for a boy. The woods are no place to live. Not even for a witch.

But days turn into weeks turn into months and nothing happens. Nothing happens until one chilly night the sound of a twig snapping jolts him out of his doze.

He sits up.

Something is different. Strange. Despite their sharper ears, none of his companion moves.

Nick listens closely into the dark. The shimmer of power is faint but unmistakable.

This has to be it.

He senses his smile before he hears his voice.

“C o m e t o m e .” 

It sounds like the wind in the trees.

Nick pulls his blanket closer around himself and gets to his feet. Careful not to wake Amalia, he pads over the soft forest floor towards destiny. All he has to do is follow the pull of power.

He sits on a tree stump as if it were a throne, a dark shape swathed in shadows. Magic radiates off him like an invisible glow.

“Come here, my child. Let me look at you.”

Obediently, Nick stumbles forwards.

A large hand reaches for him, a talon slips under his chin, tilting his head upwards. At first he doesn’t dare raise his gaze.

He is huge, tall and broad and not at all human. He has a goat’s head, horns, hooves for feet and claws for hands, even fur on his legs and chest, and Nick should be afraid. But he isn’t. Not really. He is used to beasts, is he not? After all he does live with them...

“My little wolf-boy,” Satan says, affection sweet as honey in his voice. “How pretty you are…”

A strange sort of pride unfurls in Nick’s chest.

The Dark Lord leans closer, conspiratorially. “You know, I was pretty once, just like you.”

And before Nick’s eyes his appearance changes into that of a man, dark-haired and beautiful.

“One day I shall walk the earth in my true form again,” he whispers. “Will you help me, Nicholas Scratch?”

Nick nods, eyes wide and heart racing. Like so many before him, he is enthralled.

There’s this idea that you sign over your soul all at once when you write your name in the book, but really you give it away, piece by piece, time after time. And this is the first piece the Dark Lord will take, and many more will follow.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, and of course Nick is. Kids his age always are, all the more when they live in the woods.

The piece of chocolate cake he hands him is juicy and sweet and the best thing Nick has ever tasted, and while he is chewing, Satan gently wraps his hands around his waist and lifts him up and sits him down on his lap, straddling his thigh.

“You’re a very special boy,” the Dark Lord whispers as he tucks him close, against his warm animal body.

__

“That’s not how it went,” Nick says, voice hoarse.

The corners of Lucifer’s mouth twitch. “Are you sure?”

Nick wants to be sure.

He wants to say he is.

Instead he bites his tongue and says nothing.

“How do you think you survived in the wild?” Lucifer says. “Who do you think taught you magic?”

Something squirms at the bottom of Nick’s mind, just like before, but this time he can’t stop it. A memory pulls free, bubbles up to the surface, then another and another. Images, words, sensations. The order skewed, seemingly arbitrary.

His throat burning with stifled sobs and unspilt tears; queasiness low in his belly; not fear; magic rushing through his veins; a taste of power; a taste of helplessness; brilliant pain; the hot, sharp tug of pleasure; not guilt; not shame; the bittersweet smear of chocolate in his mouth; loneliness cold and silent like a blanket of snow.

“You did this to me...” _Did you?_

Lucifer only smiles.

__

“You know you can end this, Nicholas,” he says. “You know what you have to do.”

But Nick only grinds his teeth together while Lucifer rifles lazily through his mind for something else to torture him with. Lucky for him (and unlucky for Nick), he doesn’t have to dig deep. Nicholas’ brain is a goldmine of doubts and regrets, of painful memories and trauma.

The death of his parents. Amalia. Everything about Amalia. Cold nights out in the woods. Starving. Freezing. Loneliness. The mind-numbing loneliness.

A girl in a stone tower. Her eyes like glass, her body like a doll ripped apart.

Sabrina’s face when he confessed his betrayal. The glitter of tears in her eyes.

As heart-wrenching as it is to return to these moments, Lucifer quickly grows bored of trips down memory lane. He much prefers to be the architect of Nick’s suffering, construct new scenarios, write his own scripts to Nick’s nightmares.

__

An old man looks at him from the mirror, his face vaguely familiar, but old, so very old. Wrinkled, washed out. The eyes deep set, the circles underneath dark and hollow. His skin is sallow, uneven, covered in age spots and broken capillaries.

He watches the man ageing, a time lapse of how he wilts and shrivels like an apple. His hair, once lush and thick, begins to thin, bald patches are spreading. His features becomes gaunt. Skull-like. The flesh shrinks, the body grows gnarled like an old tree.

It’s his own future. It’s eerie to watch himself deteriorate, decay...

“I can give you eternal youth, Nicholas, everlasting beauty.”

The aches of old age have settled in his bones. The muscles weak, the skin loose.

Nick reaches up, touches the old man’s face – _his_ face – with knobbly fingers and it cracks and crumbles like ash...

__

Sometimes he’s allowed to roam free in his own mind so he will go somewhere safe, and the first place on his list is always, and will always be, the library.

Nick’s nowhere more comfortable than in the company of books. As soon as he pushes open the door, a magical smell will engulf him: old paper and leather, candle-wax and spilt ink.

He will pick up a heavy, leather-bound volume or a small booklet bound in colourful linen, settle down in a cozy little corner, and take a deep breath to inhale the atmosphere of the place, its very own charm.

Only then will he open the book and try to summon the words.

Since the library only exists in his head, the books are also just filled with what he remembers.

Nick has an excellent memory, but it’s not excellent enough to actually picture the pages in his mind’s eye. Bits and pieces will come back, a paragraph here, an illustration there. Enough to find some solace in the exercise, even if it doesn’t compare to the bliss of reading.

He finds, however, that every time he returns to the library, the words become harder to recall, they keep slipping away from him as if they grow tattered and threadbare with use.

So he should be more suspicious when he opens a book one day and the print is crystal clear before his eyes. But he’s exhausted, and it’s such a pleasant surprise, he can’t bring himself to worry.

Eagerly he reads the first page and it’s kind of familiar and it’s also not, so he can’t wait to turn the page.

The page, however, is stubborn. It’s a little sticky, the edges sharp as glass and –

_Ouch!_

It’s only a small cut but like every paper cut it hurts more than it should and it bleeds too, so without thinking, Nick puts his finger into his mouth. A small burst of copper on his tongue and the pain is gone.

With a wet finger it’s easier to get the page unstuck, and Nick reads on greedily but soon, he has to turn another page and again, he cuts himself.

_For hell’s sake!_

This time, as he’s sucking the blood from his finger, he’s thinking. Something is off about this and it feels as though he should know what... Another one of these memories that seems glued to the bottom of his consciousness stirs, trying to free itself.

But there’s still a book in his lap, and it’s difficult to resist its lure of the book. He turns another page. And cuts himself again.

He looks at his hands. There should be three cuts. But there are more. Many more than three. They’re sliced open everywhere, shredded by a thousand paper cuts, slowly filling with blood.

He’s feeling dizzy. The room begins to spin. It’s only then that the penny drops.

__

Lucifer’s arm flexes around Nick’s throat, squeezing as if he intends to crush his windpipe. “Give up, boy!”

“Never,” Nick bites out between clenched teeth.

Lucifer has him in a back mount, legs wrapped around him, his choke-hold unbreakable. Game over. Nick’s getting light-headed already, he’s going to pass out soon, but that’s all right.

Nothing to worry about.

 _If you die in a dream_ , they say...

Either he’s not dreaming, or the rule doesn’t apply in hell, but Nick can attest to it by now – Lucifer won’t be able to kill him, not really. No matter the flutter of panic in his stomach when he’s unable to breathe. No matter the animal instinct to struggle.

The fear is real tough even if death is not.

This time Lucifer loosens his grip _before_ Nick slips into unconsciousness.

“You know you’re going to break at some point.” The irritation in his voice is palpable. “Why put off the inevitable?”

Nick almost laughs. _Why do you think? Because I’m going to buy Sabrina as much time as I can, you stupid, arrogant bastard!_

“I can give you the world, Nicholas... everything you want.” The promise used to be

_Liar. You can give me nothing I want. Absolutely nil._

What he wants is his freedom. What he wants is Sabrina safe. What he wants is for Sabrina to forgive him.

None of these wishes can be granted. All of them fundamentally contradict the Dark Lord’s agenda.

“Perhaps next time,” he says.

Everything goes dark.

__

Alone in a cold, dark cave he lies dying. Outside the snow falls in thick down-feather flakes. The mountain above him will be his burial mound.

He’s too weak too move, has been for days. Days that feel like weeks that feel like years. Hunger is gnawing at his insides, constantly. His body has begun to eat itself up. There’s not much left but skin and bones.

Not long now. Sometimes the delightful taste of food wafts through the cave. He knows it’s only an illusion. It would be too late anyway. Nothing could save him now. He has become wise in the ways of death.

“Give me what I want, Nicholas,” Lucifer whispers. “Give me what I want and you will be spared.”

__

“Yield,” he hisses, his hand like a vice around his jaw as he forces Nick to watch – watch the angel Lucifer change into Bathomet, the horned demon; watch how his fingers transform into claws, his nails into talons; watch how he drags them over Nick’s arm, almost gentle at first. They’re sharp as razors, break his skin oh so easily.

Blood wells up, so much of it, and more the deeper the talons slice through his flesh, until Nick catches a glimpse of white in the mess that used to be his arm, his own bones laid bare.

The sight is even worse than the pain. His stomach turns, just as the Devil repeats his demand: “Yield!”

__

A sharp smack across the cheek jolts him awake. He blinks, disoriented, and lifts his hand to touch his face. It feels tender, it’s going to bruise, but that’s not what puzzles him. Someone was screaming and has now stopped.

It takes him a second to understand it was him.

The relief of having escaped his nightmare only lasts for a moment. He blinks again and sees Lilith, looming over him. She is still wearing Mary Wardwell’s face but here, in the pit, the facade has become patchy, almost translucent. Her true nature shines through the mortal features and it’s terrifying.

He doesn’t doubt her for a second when she says: “If you keep screaming like that, Mr Scratch, I will have to cut out your tongue.” They don’t joke about such things in hell.

At least she seems pleased enough by his demure nod.

“Oh I see, we will get along swimmingly.” She pats his cheek. “Now be a good boy and let me talk to your master, will you?”

Nick wants to protest – Lucifer is not his master, not anymore, but just as he opens is mouth his gaze catches on Lilith’s crown, _Sabrina’s crown_ , and something stirs inside him, an unholy fury, and just like before everything turns red.

__

When Nick comes to again, he’s bound. Wrists and ankles have been clapped in irons, cuffs of prettily swirled metal, gleaming like silver. Damascus steel. Deep inside him, the Devil recoils in disgust. It will keep him at bay for a while, and Nick in his senses.

Slowly he sits up, chains rattling.

A creature crouching nearby startles and falls over. “My lord...” they stutter. “You’re awake.”

An ugly little thing, Nick thinks as he takes in the smear of ash around their eyes and mouth. Half-dead looking. Some sort of demonic bellhop, judging by their attire. Quite ridiculous really.

For some reason the minion seems unable to look at him, yet they also seem unable to look away. Their eyes flick up and promptly down again as if Nick was forbidden to look at.

He’s been stripped of his clothes, Nick realizes. Not that he needs them, it’s as hot in hell as you’d expect, and usually, usually he wouldn’t care. He’s got a young, lean, well-toned body, something to take pride in, something to brag about. There’s no reason to be ashamed of nudity? Shackled and chained up, however, it only highlights how vulnerable he is, how exposed.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the minion says, unquestionably picking up on Nicholas’ unease. “Her Viciousness The Queen demanded you be prepared for court.”

“Prepared for court?” Nick echoes.

The minion shuffles to their feet, only to immediately curtsy, wringing their hands. “The queen will receive visitors here.”

Nick tilts his head. “So?”

“She wants you to look your best.” They don’t meet Nick’s eye when they say it, but they still can’t resist stealing another glance.

Nicholas can only guess what sinister plans the new Queen of Hell has in store for him. If Lilith wants to exhibit him as a trophy, a pretty pet at her feet, so be it. And whatever her minion thinks of it, if Nick’s role at court excites or embarrasses them, doesn’t matter.

“Get on with it then,” Nick says with a wave of his hand as nonchalant as his chains will allow, and the minion crawls closer, still bashful. They dip a wash cloth into a bowl of water and start wiping him down, gentle, as though Nicholas were laid low by a fever, and the minion charged with his care.

It’d be weird in any case, but the reverence with which they go about their work makes it all the weirder. Is it possible they know about the Dark Lord trapped inside him? But if they knew, wouldn’t they try to free their master?

Nick watches the minion thoroughly, devotedly washing his feet. There’s almost something erotic about the way they touch him. Is that at the bottom of it – desire? It would explain their awkwardness.

Watching out for little signs that might confirm his theory proves itself a decent distraction.

“What’s your name?” he asks the minion after a while, causing them to almost drop their water bowl.

“I don’t have a name, my lord,” they say and Nick wonders if, underneath their ghastly makeup, they might be blushing.

Nick frowns. “You’ve got no name?”

The minion shakes their head. “No, my lord.”

“So how should I address you?”

“Address me, my lord?”

“Call you...”

The minion looks at him, wide-eyed. Perhaps without all the dirt on their face they wouldn’t look that bad after all.

“Nevermind,” Nick says and is careful not to interrupt the minion’s efforts with any more useless questions.

To make sure he look his best apparently means to dress him up as a mix between jester and pleasure slave. After washing and meticulously shaving him, the minion rubs oil into his skin, some shimmering ointment that lends his skin a golden radiance. To complete the look they put a ruff around his neck that feels like millstone.

All the world’s a stage, Nick thinks. Why should hell be any different?

The rustle of silks and jangle of jewellery announces the arrival of the Queen of Hell.

“If you need to summon me, my lord,” the minion whispers hastily in their last moment of privacy, “call for Bellhop.”

“Boys, boys,” Lilith tuts in her best teacher impression. “What are you whispering about? We have no secrets here. Whatever you have to say, you can say it out loud for everyone to hear.”

As Bellhop quickly scrambles out of sight, Lilith focuses all her attention on Nick. Her blood-red lips pursed as if she doesn’t approve of what she sees, she eyes him up and down and up again and Nick does his best to meet her gaze with defiance.

“Very nice,” she says at last, probably the highest praise she is capable of, and despite himself, a wave of relief washes over Nicholas.

“Although,” she adds as an afterthought, “we should at least give you some breeches. After all, we wouldn’t want to tempt the Plague Kings to eat you alive.”

__

As one would expect, the Devil is excellent at his job; after all, practice makes perfect.

What Nicholas – for some inexplicable reason – finds surprising though is how much Lucifer seems to _enjoy_ the nitty-gritty part of his work.

Deep down, despite all evidence to the contrary, he must have truly believed the tales he was raised on: how the tragic hero Lucifer Morningstar, fairest of angels, was cast out of heaven for his righteous rebellion, for taking a stand against the tyranny of the False God.

Reality bears little semblance to those stories. While Lucifer is without doubt beautiful, there’s nothing noble about him. He’s a glutton for pain, he revels in misery and the cruelty of his sadist games, and Nicholas, who – warlock or not – is a child of his time, has trouble wrapping his head around the sheer brutality of it all.

It seems so artless. So medieval.

Every method of torture known to humankind, every device, every trick, every terrible practice, is still in use in hell, and the Devil himself is not above tightening the thumbscrews on some poor soul, setting red-hot pincers to flesh, stoking a fire or turning the wheels of a rack until joints pop and ligaments tear.

He brings all this, mind you, on the sinners who in life did his bidding, on all his acolytes, witches and wizards, murderers, rapists, plunderers, warmongers and tyrants. This is their reward, eternal suffering. And Lucifer feasts on it, _thrives_ on it, just like he thrived on their vile deeds before.

And so the circle is complete.

The lies lie uncovered. It’s not choice and freedom that’s at the heart of their cult. It’s evil, pure and simple.

__

The icy wind is like fire on Nick’s face, on his naked torso. His fingers are burning, but he knows that won’t last. Frozen flesh turns white and cold as porcelain, then black when necrosis sets in.

An image flashes across his mind – himself, mere hours from now, frostbitten, disfigured. All the beauty destroyed by the relentless cold.

Come and see what happens to traitors...

Nick’s eyes sting as he squints into the storm. With the snow coming from all directions it’s impossible to see anything but static, an agonizing flurry of white. It’s only when the wind pauses for a moment that the sheer infinite vastness of the hellscape reveals itself. The frozen lake is not, as one might expect, smooth and serene as glass, but twisted and warped, a wasteland of pack ice jagged with pressure ridges.

In the silence, the groans and creaks of the ice can be heard, and from afar the lament of the damned trapped in this topography of torment.

Not everyone is frozen in place though. Nearby a figure is crouching over an undefinable heap on the ground. As Nick stumbles closer he realizes the heap is moving. Sloth-like it tries to crawl away, leaving a trail of red on the stark white snow.

It is human, or rather the caricature of one, all skin and bone, the arms and legs stick-thin and— Nick stares at it in disbelief— gnawed at. They’re covered in bite-marks, whole chunks of flesh are missing, as is, Nick notices with absolute horror, one of the poor man’s feet.

Slowly he shifts his focus to the creature he first spotted and, as if they only now had become aware of his presence, they look up, teeth bared and bloody, the missing leg clutched in their claw-like hands.

Stunned, Nick stumbles backwards. Everything is spinning. Vertigo has him, pulls him down into darkness.

In his head, Lucifer is laughing.

__

Fire licks at the wood with hungry tongues; not long and the heat will become unbearable.

Nick thinks of the accounts he read, of all those people tortured and killed, almost none of them witches, almost all innocent.

They used to laugh about it, at the academy, about the description of shrivelling skin and shrinking flesh, the horrible deaths of unfortunate mortals. Now that Nick experiences it up close, it’s not so funny anymore.

The screams are bloodcurdling. The pain is worst in the beginning, he remembers, when the heat hasn’t destroyed the nerves yet. None of the souls burning in hell have bodies of course, so logically they should not even be able to experience pain.

But logic has no dominion in hell.

Heaven! not even Nick himself is physically here. He is safely chained to Lilith’s throne, her very own treasure chest of blood and bone holding her most prized possession – the Dark Lord’s spirit. And yet.

And yet Nick _feels_ the heat, and he _hears_ the screams, and whatever he think he knows, he also knows this is real – after a fashion.

People used to pass out, from the pain, the smoke, a mercy under the circumstances; but hell is different. Here there’s no such leniency. They’re awake until the end, their eyes white and mad in blackened faces, their bodies burnt to a cinder.

Nick is sick with fear, terror thick in his blood as the flames dance on the blackening logs. Higher and higher they climb, ravenous, eager to lick at his limbs, eager to lick flesh from bone.

__

“Oh you poor boy,” Lilith purrs, dragging her knuckles down the side of his face in what could be soothing gesture from anyone but her. “What has he done to you?”

Even in his stupor he doesn’t miss the hungry glint in her eyes.

He shudders, recoils, but Madam Satan only laughs. “Don’t be shy, boy,” she says. “You can tell me. Trust me, I know what a cruel master he is.”

She runs a fingernail down Nick’s bare chest. It is very sharp, a little more pressure and she’ll draw blood. Like all creatures of the pit she lives off suffering. She feeds on it, thrives on it, and there’s nothing Nick can do to stop her from gorging herself on his misery.

“Oh sweet boy,” she whispers, her nose so close to his skin, it makes his hair stand on end. “Your fears smell delightful.”

Her clawlike fingers scratch over his belly. “How pretty you are. How delicious.”

Nick thinks of Hänsel and Gretel and finds he can picture her too easily as the witch in the gingerbread house.

His stomach muscles twitch as her hand glides lower.

__

“Why don’t you admit it, Nicholas?” Lucifer whispers into his ear, his hand sliding down Nick’s chest. “You like this, don’t you?”

Nick sucks in a sharp breath.

He _has_ tried this before and he _did_ like it, but then it was a game, make-believe: Someone leaning into him from behind, taller, stronger, Nick’s back flush against a broad chest, a hand sprawled possessively across his stomach, the other wrapped around his throat, the tingle of nerves, the sweet rush of desire, the heady thrill of submission...

Now this is different. This isn’t fooling around with a playmate. Satan himself demands he submit to him – and there’s no way Nick can refuse.

It’s not just a slight nervousness that sits in the pit of his stomach, it’s a tangle of snakes, twisting and turning, and all he can do is keep breathing, keep calm.

The Devil’s true form is beautiful, but he’s no less cruel when he’s pretty.

Up close, his body heat is intolerable. The skin of Nick’s back sticks to Lucifer’s chest and it feels like melting, like being _welded_ together, much like their souls are trapped in the same cage. He can feel Lucifer’s cock, huge and hard squeezed between their bodies.

There might have been a time when Nick dreamed of Lucifer like this – his Dark Lord come to ravish him. But not all dreams are meant to come true.

He swallows hard.

Behind his back, Lucifer’s lips curl into a victorious smile. While his right hand has gone to wander, his left hand is still wrapped possessively around Nick’s throat. He can sense every bob of Nick’s Adam’s apple, every intake of breath. He could squeeze if he wanted...

Something inside Nick gives a little twitch that feels almost like pleasure.

His cheeks are hot.

“I can see what my daughter likes about you,” Lucifer muses, fingertips brushing softly over Nick’s stomach, tracing the outlines of muscles.

Nick hates him for mentioning Sabrina. He doesn’t want her associated with this, doesn’t want her memory tainted. And he hates even more how readily his body betrays him, how easy it is for Lucifer to make him complicit in this...

Every little touch makes arousal coil tighter in his belly – the ghost of a caress across the waistband of his pants, fingers dipping deeper, skimming along his pubic hair.

Nick’s heart is hammering in his chest.

“Ask me for it,” Lucifer says. “I know you want to.”

Nick digs his teeth into his bottom lip and shakes his head.

“You’re a defiant little thing, aren’t you?” Lucifer’s tone is not without fondness. “It’s just one little word.”

“No.”

Lucifer’s smile is all teeth. “Wrong choice.”

__

Lilith doesn’t ask him to beg.

It’s not the kind of game she wants to play.

She has him stripped and his shackled wrists attached to a meat hook so he’ll remain upright, no matter what, so he is exposed and vulnerable at all times. Her eyes are hungry when she looks him up and down as if she’s about to eat him.

Nick’s skin prickles uncomfortably. He wonders if she does indeed think about it – how much she could chop off of him without destroying Lucifer’s prison.

But then she doesn’t hurt him. She just wraps her long demon-fingers around his cock and strokes him to full hardness with only a few determined pulls. Her hand is cold against his heated flesh, but the pressure is just right.

Nick closes his eyes, lets his head fall back, concentrates on the heavy, leaden sensation between his legs, a throbbing that grows more urgent with every tug, tension building fast. He should, perhaps, feel more violated than rewarded by this act, but he has seen enough of hell by now to know better than to refuse a treat. Feeling good, even if just for a little bit, is what helps him keep it together.

A strange, treacherous hope blooms inside him as his arousal is mounting, climbing towards a peak. Maybe, if he’s quick enough, he can have this.

His climax is swelling, a surge of pleasure, his balls tighten, and Lilith’s grasp is oh so perfect.

He’s almost there, on the precipice of release, when she lets go of him, leaving his cock bobbing in the air, flushed and painfully hard, precome trickling down the swollen shaft and dripping onto the marble floor.

Lilith clicks her tongue, disapprovingly.

He knows what she’s going to say before she says it –

“Now look at the mess you’ve made.” She dips the tip of her shoe into the small puddle and sighs. “You men are all the same – you have no self control.”

Nick prepares himself mentally to quite literally left off the hook for a while so he clean her shoe with his tongue, but instead she flicks her fingers and out of the shadows her demonic minion appears. He seems even more flustered than the last time Nick saw him, his eyes fixed to the floor, nervously clutching a piece of cloth. If he could blush he would be tomato red.

Lilith points the glossy smear on the tip of her shoe. “Clean this up, minion.”

Bellhop gets on his knees and bends over Lilith’s feet, cloth at the ready like a hellish shoeshine boy, but his queen won’t have it.

“You’re allowed to use your tongue.” She says it as if it were the greatest honour.

Bellhop doesn’t seem to disagree. “Thank you, your Viciousness,” he stammers. He leans in, nose almost touching her feet, and sticks out his tongue. It’s soot-black.

Nicholas shudders. He wants to look away but somehow he can’t. Instead he watches with morbid fascination how Bellhop runs his dead-looking tongue over the shining leather of Lilith’s shoe. This was supposed to be his task, he thinks, and the reasons he was spared he can only speculate about. But he’s grateful nonetheless. Unlike Bellhop, he wouldn’t enjoy the service.

Still, his erection isn’t flagging – he’s at least as hard as he was before. His cock aches with the need to be touched. A constant, dull throbbing that’s clouding his mind, trapping him in a soft, treacherous haze.

Perhaps Lilith poisoned him.

Nick remembers the book in the library.

But that was a trick of Lucifer’s, nothing but smoke and mirrors. This is real.

Perhaps hell itself is poisonous.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Mr Scratch,” Lilith says. Her hand closes around his cock again and Nick groans in surprise, knees buckling. It’s only his chains that keep him upright now.

Below him, Bellhop is done with cleaning up Lilith’s feet, there’s really no need to suck at the tip of her shoe any more, so she pulls it away.

“Now the floor,” she demands and her minion shifts, lowering his face.

He presses his tongue against the stone floor, black on black, reverent. When he glances up, the rapture on his face is impossible to miss, and Nick realizes – this is not about Lilith. This is about him.

He stares at Bellhop lapping up every last drop of his precome with relish.

A squeeze of his cock jolts him out of his thoughts. Pleasure flashes through him, tinged with pain.

“Focus, Mr Scratch.”

A series of quick, rough strokes and Nick is on the edge again.

And again, Lilith lets go of him just at the right moment.

Another glorious orgasm ruined. This time, Nick has to make an effort not to groan in disappointment. His cock jerks, more fluid dripping from its head down to the floor where Bellhop still crouches, waiting, eager.

Lilith produces as silk tie and wraps it around the base of Nick’s cock and balls.

“Now that’s better,” she says in her teacher voice. “We wouldn’t want an accident to happen, would we?”

Whatever she has in store for Nick, it looks as though she has only just begun.

__

Pandemonium is a fever dream.

Nick keeps slipping in and out of nightmares, forever caught in a twilight state, his sense of reality fraying.

He remains chained to Lilith’s throne like some infernal pet, with Bellhop tending to him, day and night, always lurking in the shadows, always so eager.

Lilith feeds him scraps from the palm of her hand while visitors come and go, courtiers, warlords, torturers and priest, architects of pain – everyone of rank and name seeks an audience with the new queen, and inside Nick’s head Lucifer rages and fumes, and in lucid moments Nick thinks it’s reckless of Lilith to let him be in the same room as all those hellions. All it takes is a lapse on his part to risk for her ploy to be exposed.

He makes the mistake to tell her one day and she rewards him with a pat on the cheek and cutting out his tongue.

It takes a toll to be the devil’s jailer. Nicholas’ body is sturdy, just as Lilith predicted, but his mind is not, and Lilith herself isn’t helping. Perhaps her demonic nature is too strong to resist temptation, perhaps she simply doesn’t want to – whatever the reason she loves to torment him.

Sometimes when Lilith’s abusing him he can’t even tell whether it’s real or only another illusion.

Mostly the former, he guesses. It’s her way to taunt Lucifer – by teasing Nick, bringing him to the edge of release, then watch his orgasm shrivel and die, and the constant trickle of precome dripping to the cold, hard floor, his cock twitching, rosy and swollen and desperate.

It’s a game they play, Lilith and Lucifer, and he’s just their puppet, their pawn.

__

You can’t deny the Devil what he wants.

Nick should have learnt that a long time ago, and yet he still tries, no matter how futile, how childish his resistance might me. He could play along willingly, make it easier for himself, but it would feel like admitting defeat, and he’s not quite ready for that yet. As long as has a little bit of strength left, he’s going to fight.

And so he struggles when Lucifer grabs him by the scruff of the neck, tries to wrest out of his grasp, but to no avail. The ordeals of hell have left him weaker than he realized.

Lucifer burns with fury at Lilith’s treachery, a red-hot wrath that consumes him, that threatens to consume them both. There’s nothing left of the suave facade, nothing polished or civilized about him. He _growls_ as he throws Nick to the ground. He’s upon him before Nick has had as much as the ghost of a chance to pick himself up again. He pins him down with ease, his hand huge and heavy between Nick’s shoulder blades, the other one on his naked ass.

This time he won’t ask.

 _No_ , Nick thinks. _No no no._

Lucifer forces his knees apart and a chill runs down Nick’s spine.

Relax, he tells himself. You can do this. You’ve had worse.

And maybe it’s true, but the animal part of his brain remains unconvinced.

This is not real but it will feel like it is.

Lucifer leans over him and Nick feels small even before Lucifer’s erection falls onto his back. It leaves a wet smear in its wake as it slides across Nick’s skin, hot as a branding iron, and Nick wonders how many inches he’s counting. He’s not sure but it’s definitely too many. The Devil’s cock is massive, too long and too thick for a tiny human like him.

Despite his best intentions, Nick tenses up. Lucifer moves against him, lazy thrusts between the cheeks of his ass, and he’s starting to feel sick.

It’s not long until Lucifer changes the angle, the tip of his cock pressing against the tender puckered flesh of Nick’s hole, wide and blunt and relentless, forcing its way inside and it burns like fire. Nick is by no means a virgin, he’s had his fair share of anal, and not just the vanilla kind, but this is excruciating. It’s like being _impaled_ and the pain doesn’t stop, it just goes on and on, and it seems to take hours until Lucifer finally bottoms out, his balls crushed against Nick’s skin.

“Now who would have thought a little slut like you would still be so tight,” Lucifer says as if this was the perfect moment to start a conversation. He doesn’t sound in the least affected, he’s just his usual cruel self, while Nick’s breath comes ragged, his muscles trembling as he tries to get used to Lucifer’s size.

“Fuck you,” he grinds out, but Lucifer only laughs.

“Au contraire, Nicholas.” He slowly pulls out, every damn inch of him sliding through the tight muscle of Nick’s hole. “Tell me, do you like my cock up your arse? Is it all you ever dreamed it would be?”

Nick is about to repeat his last words but at that very moment Lucifer pushes back in and all he manages is a choked wet noise in the back of his throat.

“I take that as a yes,” Lucifer says as begins to set a pace, deep, merciless thrusts, and Nick loses the ability to even _think_ words, much less speak them.

Lucifer twists his hand into Nick’s hair and pulls, dragging him further onto his thick hard cock. “Moan for me, you little whore,” he says. “Show me how much you love getting fucked.”

Nick scalp hurts, and his ass hurts, but somehow the words touch a chord. He can’t help it, he clenches around the intrusion. His lower body feels like lead, like a festering wound, but there’s more to it than that. There’s the dull, awful throb of arousal, the agony of a silk ribbon tied around his hard cock.

In the physical world, Lilith still has him strung up, hard and dripping, with Bellhop crouched to his feet, lapping up the mess Nick makes of the throne room floor.

Lucifer’s mocking laughter is close to his his ear. “You can thank Lilith for this the next time you see her.”

__

Suffering comes in a thousand flavours, each delicious to the Devil’s tastes, but nothing is sweeter to him than despair laced with a dash of hope and pain tempered with a tinge of pleasure. It’s the contrast that keeps things interesting.

__

Nick’s cheeks are wet, his skin sticky with sweat. His cock is dripping.

He has lost all sense of time. A countless number of orgasms he was denied. A countless number of times, Lucifer spilled inside him, his thick, warm seed oozing from his gaping hole, trickling down his balls.

He’s numb by now. He is numb and yet everything hurts and every fibre in his body begs for release.

Determined, merciless fingers close around his cock.

He’s still hard as rock and so very eager.

His body yields readily to the intrusion by now, Lucifer’s thick, hard cock a part of him, pushing in and out like clockwork.

His Lord enjoys him as it is his right. “You belong to me, Nicholas Scratch,” he whispers. “I own you, hide and hair, body and soul.”

And he shows him what that means, spells it out with every thrust, every cut in his skin, rips him open, sinks his teeth into his flesh, deep into his shoulder, tears out chunks of muscle.

The pain is excruciating. The pain is ecstasy.

Elsewhere a ribbon is untied. Nick’s abused cock twitches, his balls tighten, and then, finally, he comes.

__

The Devil can be so very gentle. Sometimes he takes Sabrina’s form and lets Nicholas rest for a little while.

Sabrina places his head in her lap and strokes his hair soothingly while she talks to him, nonsense mostly, sweet endearments, nothing important, but it’s nice to hear her voice. Sometimes she sings him a lullaby and Nick almost, just almost falls asleep. And although he knows it’s not her, some part of him wants to believe it is. Just for a few blissful moments.

He hates himself for playing along but he’s running out of strength.

“Release me and you may return to her,” Lucifer whispers.

Sometimes Nick is tempted to.

__

It has occurred to Nick before that it might not have been accidental his parents died of a fever just when he was old enough to survive on his own. Just when his mother had laid the foundations of his education, taught him to read, not only English, but also Latin, a little Greek, a little French. She had taught him his first spells, too. Just enough for him to become the Devil’s disciple.

It wasn’t anything he held against the Dark Lord – strictly speaking. Nick was used to accepting things for what they were. As long as he did, he was fearless.

He always wondered about it of course, why Satan preferred him wandering the mountains, running with wolves, instead of seeking out his own kind, and it’s only in retrospect that it dawns on him what Satan was playing at: Sabrina would never have shown any interest in him had he been an ordinary warlock.

The likes of Faustus Blackwood would have made sure his spirit had been crushed and his heart dried up and shrivelled even before he signed his name in the book. Instead he grew up wild and free and strong. The company of wolves imbued him with a rough understanding of affection, of loyalty, without corrupting him with the softness of mortals.

He was just enough of an orphan, just enough of an outsider for Sabrina to take the bait.

It’s also not lost on Nick how much he resembles Lucifer himself – dark hair, sly smile.

Most definitely not a coincidence.

__

Nick wants Sabrina like he never wanted anything or anyone before. He yearns for her with a wolf’s hunger and a poet’s tenderness. Both is – he’s well aware of it – not what she deserves.

She isn’t prey, not a thing to stalk and chase and catch.

She isn’t an innocent flower to praise in song either.

She is a powerful witch. She’s fearless. She’s good and kind and sweet, too, and just being with her is the best thing Nick can imagine.

When she lets him kiss her, he gets drunk on it like on sunshine after a long winter. The birds sing of his happiness in the trees.

“Sabrina,” he whispers. His hands are itching with the desire to touch her but he doesn’t dare.

They’re in her room, her bed so soft and alluring, he wants to sweep her off her feet and carry her over, lay her down gently, reverently...

He stares at her mouth, red as blood, his heart racing.

“Nick,” she says. Her hands are on his chest, small and soft and full of magic.

A wave of tenderness washes through him. He fights the urge to make a fool of himself, the urge to kneel and pledge allegiance to her, queen of his heart, queen of hell, queen of all things. Who is he to hope she love him back?

“Finally you get it, boy,” Lucifer remarks from the sidelines. “She is a queen and you are nothing. Nobody. You’re not worthy to kiss her feet.”

As if by command Sabrina’s eyes grow cold, hard and black as obsidian, and her lush lips twist into a grimace of disgust.

“Sabrina,” Nick pleads, but she’s taking a step back, and another one, until she’s close enough to Lucifer for him to wrap his arm around her waist. The smugness of his expression is unbearable – as is the fact that he looks like a mirror version of Nick himself: black leather jacket, shirt gaping open over his chest, almost too-tight jeans.

It makes Nick wonder who’s copying who. Lucifer is taller than Nick by almost eight inches, so much taller than Sabrina, but apart from that they could be brothers – they have the same dark unruly hair, slicked back from their faces, the same sort of chiselled chin and high cheekbones and muscular physique, eyes burning with hellfire.

The most remarkable difference between them is Lucifer’s grin. “Poor boy, you really thought you could have her, didn’t you?”

He’s got his hands all over her and bile rises in Nick’s throat.

“She’s mine.” A soft touch of her jaw and she’s turning her head as if in trance. Lucifer leans down, presses his lips to hers, feasting on her mouth. There’s the wet gleam of tongue and Nick is feeling sick.

 _But you’re her father_ , he wants to yell.

 _What of it?_ Lucifer responds in his head. _Lot lay with his daughters after Sodom fell._

The image is vivid in his mind’s eye: their naked bodies entwined on the throne of hell, Sabrina’s face contorted with pleasure.

“No,” Nick groans.

Lucifer smiles a wolf-smile. “Oh yes.”

__

It hurts to let her go but it will be the last thing he feels. Then he’ll be free. 

He thought she’d be his strength, his sword and his shield, but what she really is is a weakness.

He has seen Sabrina a thousand times in a thousand variations, each one more painful than the last, and he finally figured out how to end his suffering.

“Forget about me,” he tells her. 

He really hope she does.

~


End file.
